The Trinket Box

She had gotten the box as a Christmas present. About the size of a shoebox, it was made of a dark stained wood, carved on the four faces, with a embroidered fabric cover. It held all her most prized possessions. Little trinkets of her childhood, mainly lacking in monetary value but with a surplus of sentimental value to make up for it. A necklace she made when she was four, stickers from doctors visits lining the inside cover, science fair ribbons and trip souvenirs, the few love letters she had received over the years, some old friendship bracelets, a pendant of her grandmother's, a few old photos. One of her cat's old toy mice, the plastic treasure trove that used to reside in the tank of her short-lived goldfish.

Her childhood could be summed up in that little box. Every time she moved, making sure the box made it safely was of top priority. It resided in a desk-drawer in her dorm in college, a bedside table in her first apartment, a shelf in the closet of the house she later bought with her husband, and, after the years passed and her children grew and her hair grayed, the box lay on the table beside her hospitable bed amongst the get-well cards, flowers, and a photo of her family.

But eventually her time ran out, and she died peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by her family, the box at her side. Her funeral was planned, her will was read- and it contained one unusual request. She asked for the box to be buried with her cremated remains.

And they respected her wishes and lay the box in her grave so she would have the fond memories of her childhood with her, even in death.